Standard Operating Procedure
by My Barbaric YAWP
Summary: He’s about to walk out of her life again, almost as quietly as he entered.


Standard Operating Procedure

He's about to walk out of her life again, almost as quietly as he entered. Takes places some time after Goldeneye, but you don't need to know that movie too intimately to enjoy this vignette, although I highly recommend it if you have an interest in Bond at all.

Disclaimer: I don't own Bond, and let's face it; he wouldn't let me anyway…

* * *

He's leaving tonight. She knows. He hasn't mentioned it; he doesn't have to. It's in his eyes—the restlessness and the roving. He's a wanderer; she knew that from the beginning. It doesn't help.

The suitcases aren't packed when she gets back the hotel room. She wasn't expecting them to be. He walked into her life with nothing but a smile and a pair of sparkling eyes; it seems fitting he should walk out the same way. It's funny how the little things stick in her mind. The trivial seem to be the only thoughts that catch while the consequential stream past unnoticed. She wonders if he'll take his tooth brush. It seems silly considering everything else he'll be leaving behind, but somehow it would help—knowing that he took something with him, no matter how insignificant.

She sits on the bed and stares blankly at the wall ahead. He'll be gone tomorrow, and then she'll be gone, too. Back to Russia, perhaps—or, if she's lucky, some little hideaway in the Caribbean. She's had enough of the world stage; it's time for a show of her own. Audience of one, daily manatees, drinks on the house. And when that pales, she'll move on—like James—the next city, the next beach, the next drink. It'll be a grand tour; she's been behind a computer screen too long. It's time to see the world. Eventually. All in good time. After tomorrow, she'll have all the time in the world.

But tonight the moments are fleeting. Tonight he's leaving.

He comes in from the terrace with a bottle of champagne. And why not? It's a celebration, of sorts. Every night he returns—every day he lives—is a celebration. Tomorrow he'll leave, and after that God only knows. He may disappear completely. There may come a day—distant and dull—when her memory of him will fade into faint fantasy. Eventually, she may doubt he ever existed—this man whom she's held next to her heart in the dead of night, his eyes begging her not to let go. Will she forget their last month of stolen intimacy? Will she forget him?

And years from now—sipping champagne in some tiny bar half a world away—will he remember he was hers tonight? She doubts it. But then he smiles—that same eye-sparkling smile, the one she's missed in the last few weeks—and she can't help but smile back. It's a celebration, after all.

He pours her a glass, but it's soon discarded as he follows her up the bed. He's hers tonight, and she does her best to commit that fact to memory—the taste of his skin, the tickle of the hair on his chest, the longing in his eyes. He's hers—all of him—but just for this night, just for this moment, while he holds her and loves her as best as he can. She hopes she'll remember—years from now, oceans away—she hopes she'll remember this moment.

Dawn breaks, slowly but surely. Resting her head on his chest, she watches the sun slip over the horizon, sidling its way back into her life without compunction. And rightly so, what right has she to expect the inexorable to alter for her benefit alone?

He stirs beneath her as the sun finally breaks with the earth. His eyes open slowly, meeting hers in the pale light.

She smiles softly and sighs. "You're leaving." It's not a question, and he doesn't answer—the silence speaks instead. The siren calls—his first love and only mistress. England beacons him home.

She nods and sits back, slipping deeper into the covers while he rises to dress. Black pants, white shirt, black suspenders. Cuff links, shoes, gun, jacket, and then he's ready. He won't be taking the toothbrush.

His eyes find hers one more time, and he smiles, knowing the end is moments away. He leans down and kisses her forehead gently, tenderly.

"Standard operating procedure, darling." He whispers it softly against her skin and the warmth of his breath lasts long after the door closes behind him.

She stares at the ceiling, letting the grief sweep through her without surrendering to it. He's gone; she will remain. And after them, the sun will rise.

She sighs and sinks further back into the pillows. "I'm fine, thank you very much."

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